


Beginnings

by syrasynn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, M/M, Really just sex, Sex, Virgin!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrasynn/pseuds/syrasynn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missing scenes from ASiB and THoB. </p>
<p>“Is it true then?”</p>
<p>“Is what true?” </p>
<p>John cleared his throat. Was he sure he wanted to ask this? Did he really want to know<br/>something so personal about his flatmate? </p>
<p>“What. . .what the woman said, uh, Irene. About you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic. Un-beta'd, un-britpicked.

“Is it true then?”

 

John asked his question from behind safety his newspaper. Sherlock paused, his fingers hovering over the keyboard of John’s laptop.

 

“Is what true?”

 

Sherlock countered, eyebrows quirked. John lowered his paper to see Sherlock looking at him, his mild confusion portrayed with a small frown. John couldn’t help but smile. It was not an easy thing, to capture the full attention of Sherlock Holmes. Yet John’s simple question had done just that. _He must know_ John thought, _he knows exactly what I’m asking, the prat._ John cleared his throat. Was he sure he wanted to ask this? Did he really want to know something so personal about his flatmate? _Well, it’s a bit late now._

 

“What. . .what the woman said, uh, Irene. About you.”

 

Sherlock held John’s gaze for a beat, before quickly snapping John’s laptop shut. He stood, tossing John’s laptop into his now vacated chair. John had expected this. It was a rather personal question, after all, and Sherlock was never one to divulge information about himself. John sighed, and raised his paper again, as Sherlock moved to stiffly the kitchen.

 

“You’ve been talking to Mycroft.”

 

Sherlock didn’t phrase it as a question, so John didn’t bother responding with an answer. Of course he’d been talking to Mycroft, it wasn’t as though Sherlock was going to tell John what had happened, about the flight of the dead. Mycroft had warned John to watch Sherlock carefully, that night after Irene. Mycroft had relayed the conversation (John had felt quite smug on Sherlock’s behalf to hear how he dismantled her, and then a bit guilty), and he may have mentioned Irene’s nicknames for the Holmes brothers, not that John had fixated on that.

 

It wasn’t until twenty minutes later, after John had finished his tea and was contemplating a walk, that Sherlock spoke again, from behind his microscope.

 

“You want to know if I am a virgin.”

 

John was a bit startled, he wasn’t expecting Sherlock to speak to him again for at least another

few hours, based on the intensity with which he was staring into the microscope.

 

“Uh, well, yes.”

 

Sherlock turned, looking at John. Sherlock’s undivided attention twice within the hour? John suddenly felt quite nervous.

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock’s face was one of genuine confusion, with his brow scrunched and eyes narrowed. It was not an expression John was used to seeing.

 

“I dunno. It’s just…I. Well. We’re mates, yeah? It’s just something, something mates talk about.”

 

“Sexual conquests, or the lack thereof? This is a common discussion amongst mates?”

 

John shifted. _Okay, maybe this is a bit odd._

 

“I suppose. Yeah, uh. Yes.”

 

“Then I should prefer to not be considered your mate, John. I have no interest in hearing the sordid details of your sex life. Or rather, your near sex life, as the last time you engaged in such activities was nearly four months ago.”

 

John stared.

 

“How do you – oh nevermind. It was just a question, Sherlock.”

 

John folded his paper and tossed it on his laptop. He tugged on his jacket, quite ready for that walk he was contemplating earlier.

 

“Yes.”

 

John paused, his hand on the doorknob.

 

“Do you…ah?” _Do you want to talk about it? Is that the appropriate question when your flatmate admits to being a 30-something year old virgin?_

 

“No, John, I should think not. Pick up some Chinese on the way back, hmm?”

 

_Well. I suppose that’s that then._

 

The door clicked shut behind him.

 

***

It was hard to lie to Sherlock. John thought Sherlock would notice. He was so good at observing, how did he not observe John’s lie? Surely the truth was written all over his face. _Your girlfriend is dead._ Girlfriend? That didn’t seem appropriate. Lover? Can two people be lovers if they’ve never slept together? John thought that maybe in this case they could. What else could The Woman be to Sherlock? He fled quickly, resigned to let Sherlock keep her phone. Sentiment, right? She left him.

 

By the time John got back from returning Irene Adler’s file to Mycroft, Sherlock had moved to stand in front of the window. He was smiling.

 

John stopped, just watched him for a few minutes. _He’s happy. Happy she’s alive, safe. Even if he can never see her again._ John felt better about the lie. Still worried, certainly, but better.

 

“Dinner?”

 

Sherlock turned, his smile still in place. Suddenly John wanted that smile to be aimed at him, for him, because of him. It was jarring.

 

“Yes. Dinner would be lovely.”

 

The walk to Angelo’s was quiet, a relaxing change of pace. They claimed their usual table; the candle was already waiting for them. To John’s surprise, Sherlock ate with ferocity. Though he supposed they weren’t on a case, so his digestion wouldn’t really keep him from anything.

 

“Did you love her?”

 

John couldn’t help himself. He didn’t know what prompted the question. It just kind of tumbled out on its own. And now it was just there, floating around in the space between them, weighing down the air and making John feel slightly sick at himself.

 

“Nevermind. It’s not. It’s none of business. Sorry. Just forget it.”

 

John tried to take it back, but it was too late. He stared into his pasta, but he could feel Sherlock’s eyes boring into him.

 

“Love is just a prescribed set of chemical reactions, John.”

 

John looked up at Sherlock.

 

“That’s not an answer, Sherlock.”

 

He couldn’t help himself. He wanted to know. He needed to know. He’d been living with Sherlock for over a year now, and considered him a friend. A very close friend. At this point, he wasn’t even sure ‘friendship’ was an accurate description of what they shared. Did this woman make Sherlock feel something that John didn’t? John was the one who took care of Sherlock, cleaned his messes, dealt with his abusive and outrageous personality. Jealousy rolled through John unbidden. He heard her voice, a memory that still cut. “Does that make me special _?_ ” _It does, Irene. It makes you special and I’m still just ordinary._

 

“No.”

 

John didn’t look away. He wasn’t quite ready to believe Sherlock.

 

“No, John” Sherlock repeated. “I didn’t love her. She was mildly intelligent and a decent match. I did not have an emotional interest in her, despite her obvious and frankly pedestrian attempts to bed me. She was a fascinating woman, nothing more. Satisfied?”

 

Sherlock’s brows were raised and his lips pursed. He was clearly unhappy to have been pushed into answering a question he felt so beneath him. John didn’t care. Jealousy was still making him flushed, pushing him forward. _She’s special, and I’m just ordinary to you._

 

“Why didn’t you sleep with her? She’s beautiful. And you said yourself – a decent match for you.”

 

“I didn’t want to.”

 

“Why not?”

 

Sherlock sighed.

 

“She’s not to my tastes, alright?”

 

“Oh. Oh! Are you - ?”

 

“Married to my work, John. We’ve had this discussion before. If you’re quite done prying, I should like to get back to my samples.”

 

Without waiting for him, Sherlock strode out, his coat billowing behind him.

 

_Bloody dramatics._

 

John was left to pay the bill, again, though he supposed it was only what he deserved.

 

***

John stumbled across the doorway to 221b, cursing as he tripped over his own feet. The flat was dark, had Sherlock already gone to bed? It really wasn’t that late. Not wanting to come home after their awkward conversation, and admittingly feeling a bit foolish about his jealousy, John had gone out for drinks with Greg. Seeing as the other man had work in the morning, they had called it an early night. He thought Sherlock would still be up. _Better this way._

 

“John. You’ve been drinking.”

 

_Well bollocks._

 

“Astute observation, as always.”

 

It felt good to sling Sherlock’s words back at him. Sherlock was stretched out on the couch, his long limbs hanging over both armrests. He was still dressed.

 

“Working in the dark now?”

 

John peeled off his jacket, and started toeing off his shoes as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. Sherlock didn’t answer, but continued to stare at John. Abandoning his shoes in the middle of the floor, John collapsed in his chair, his back to Sherlock.

 

“Do you want me?”

 

John started. He craned his neck to look back at his flatmate, his face a mask of confusion. Sherlock’s face was smooth, unreadable. Not that John knew how to read him anyways.

 

“S-sorry?”

 

“Do you want me? In a sexual fashion, I mean. I do suppose I should clarify that bit.”

 

John just stared. What was the appropriate response to this question? Hadn’t it been the very question he’d been asking himself for months? _Well, that’s just not fair. I don’t even know the answer._

 

“I dunno.”

 

John thought maybe that wasn’t what he should have said, wasn’t he supposed to deny an accusation like that? But the pints he drank were still floating around in his head, and somehow it didn’t seem like such a bad thing to admit. Sherlock was gorgeous, even John could see that. He was brilliant, and John loved to be around him while he was working – most of the time anyways. Did he want him as something more than a friend? Maybe. He really just wasn’t sure.

 

“You don’t know?”

 

John shrugged, uncaring if the man could even see the motion, and turned back to face the fireplace.

 

“You’re pretty.”

 

Alright, perhaps not the smoothest line John had, but still, it was true.

 

“How flattering.”

 

Sherlock did not sound flattered. John shrugged again, and leaned his head against the back of the chair. It was really quite comfy. He was prepared to doze off until his tipsiness wore off enough for him to drag himself upstairs when he felt Sherlock’s hand in his hair. Sleepily, John cracked his eyes open. Sherlock was looking at him, stroking his hand through John’s hair.

 

“Hmm…tha’s nice.” He mumbled.

 

Sherlock must have interpreted that as some form of sanction, because in the next moment a pair of lips was pressed tightly against John’s. Smooth skin and heat were pressed against his mouth and for a moment John didn’t know what that meant. He didn’t move against the mouth pressing against him, didn’t respond to the gentle push. But then a wet tongue snaked out to swipe at his bottom lip and John gasped in sudden clarity.

 

Sherlock was kissing him.

 

Sherlock’s tongue swept into his mouth, seizing John’s surprised gasp as an opportunity. The wet muscle slid against his own, inviting John to join in. John did not waste the chance. He twisted his tongue against Sherlock’s and let out a low moan. Sherlock’s hand moved from his hair to the back of his head, gripping, keeping John from pulling away. _Why would I want to?_

 

John’s eyes were open, just barely. Sherlock’s were closed, and John wished they weren’t. He wanted to see those eyes.

 

With a quick nip to John’s lower lip, Sherlock drew away, his face hovering a few inches from John’s. His eyes were open, and John had a hard time looking anywhere else.

 

“Upstairs.”

 

Sherlock’s deep voice was steady, and it went straight to John’s cock.

 

“What?”

 

John was having a hard time stringing words together, and his eyes focused on Sherlock’s lips, wondering what he would have to say to get him back to kissing.

 

“I would prefer that my first sexual encounter take place in a bed – for comfort reasons – you understand. As I have never engaged in these activities before I cannot be sure of how loud my vocal response will be to stimuli, and I’d rather not upset Mrs. Hudson. Thus, upstairs.”

 

John sort of just blinked in response.

 

“Your bedroom, John. Now.”

 

With that, Sherlock tugged on John’s shoulders, yanking him out of his chair and guiding him to the landing. John finally found his words halfway up the stairs to his room.

 

“We’re going to have sex?”

 

“Yes John.”

 

Sherlock pushed incessantly on John’s back, unhappy with his sudden stop on the stairs. John obliged, continuing his trek upwards.

 

“You want to? With me?”

 

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

 

“Yes. Obviously.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

John parroted Sherlock’s words as he stepped into his bedroom and stumbled over to his bed. Sherlock’s hand on his back guided him down, and John sat on the edge of his bed, his eyes level with Sherlock’s crotch. John licked his lips.

 

Sherlock bent, raising his hand to John’s chin, and recaptured John’s mouth with his own. Wet flesh molded against John’s and he reached up to snag Sherlock’s shirt under his hands. Sherlock let out a little moan into John’s mouth and broke contact to sink to his knees between John’s legs. He franticly scrabbled at the zipper to John’s jeans and let out a small triumphant cry when he had undone them enough to wriggle his hand inside. Sherlock pawed inexpertly at John through his pants, and John gasped. He felt himself grow hard under Sherlock’s inexpert handling, but it wasn’t enough.

 

“Here.”

 

John laid back on the bed and lifted his hips, pulling his jeans and pants down in one go. His jeans tangled around his ankles and stayed there. Immediately Sherlock took John in his hand, lightly running his fingers over the tip of his member, pressing his thumb gently against the slit. John moaned, and struggled to pull himself into a sitting position, but Sherlock pushed his other hand against his chest, preventing him from rising.

 

“Stay there.”

 

John stayed where he was, propped up on his elbows so he was still able to watch Sherlock’s movements. Sherlock looked up at John, briefly catching his eyes before he dropped his head down and swiped his tongue along John’s shaft, from base to tip.

 

“Oh, Christ!”

 

John’s voice was thin and strangled. Had he not been impaired by alcohol and sexual desire, he would have been briefly embarrassed. As it was, he just shuddered and watched in wonder as Sherlock took the tip of him in his mouth and sucked. John moaned, loudly, and Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to meet his and John very nearly fell apart.

 

John collapsed back on the bed, his forearms no longer able to support him as Sherlock’s mouth encased him in a wet heat. Sherlock took as much of him as he could, going as far as he could before his gag reflex kicked in and then pulled off quickly.

 

“Slowly, it’s, god! It’s okay. Use your teeth – ouch! Just a little – yeah, like that, oh god oh god oh god!”

 

John gripped the sheets in his hands, resisting the urge to thrust up into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock bobbed his head along John’s shaft, sucking and licking inexpertly. When he went too far, he would pull up and lavish his attention on the head of John’s cock, sucking and tonguing at John’s slit. John had a fist in his mouth, trying desperately to stifle his increasingly frantic moans. He felt himself slipping and reached down to gently pull Sherlock off.

 

“I can’t- I’m going to –“

 

Sherlock groaned around John’s member, and John clenched both his hands in Sherlock’s hair, trying desperately to hold on to his orgasm. Sherlock pulled off him, and John leaned up enough to look at Sherlock, his lips swollen and wet, breathing heavily.

 

“I want you to.”

 

With that, Sherlock ducked his head back down and continued his ministrations on John. John’s head hit the mattress again, and with Sherlock’s permission now granted, he allowed his hips to thrust up shallowly. Sherlock had one hand griping John’s thigh, letting John thrust into his mouth, groaning. At Sherlock’s groan, John lost it. He tightened his grip in Sherlock’s curls and fucked his mouth. Sherlock let him, no longer attempting to suck or lick or do anything other than not gag as John’s cock touched the back of his throat.

 

“Sherlock – fuck!”

 

John was bucking, arching his hips and filling Sherlock’s mouth with streams of his release. Sherlock swallowed what he could, though he didn’t have much of an option with John’s prick so far in his mouth. The cum slid down the back of his throat and Sherlock pulled off, coughing.

 

As soon as John came down off his high, reasonable thought flooded his mind. _Oh, fuck._ He sat up slowly, not trusting his muscles to hold him up. Sherlock sat on his haunches between John’s knees, looking up at John’s face expectantly. A dribble of cum had leaked out of the corner of his mouth and was trailing down his chin. John’s breath caught. He reached out and wiped the liquid away with his thumb.

 

“I’m sorry. Let me – “

 

John gestured down to Sherlock’s groin, before noticing Sherlock’s slowly softening penis was pulled out of his pants, a trickle of semen dropping from the tip to join the puddle on the floor. Sherlock shook his head.

 

“Oh, damn. I’m sorry, I should have – oh, bugger.”

 

Sherlock’s mouth curved into a smile.

 

“No need to worry, John. Go to sleep.”

 

John watched as Sherlock stood gracefully – though his knees must have been sore – and tucked himself gently back into his trousers.

 

“I’ll do that for you – next time.”

 

Sherlock gave a curt nod, turning towards the door.

 

“Of course you will.”

_Oh shit, if I buggered this up…_

 

“Goodnight, John.”

 

Sherlock left the door open when he left.

 

***

 

John woke up alone in his bed. He couldn’t help the small sting of disappointment he felt. _Should I have asked him to stay?_ Somehow, John didn’t take Sherlock as the cuddling type.  He groggily checked his phone – it was still dark outside – to see that he’d only been asleep for a few hours. Still, it wasn’t a completely unreasonable hour to wake up, and John doubted he’d sleep any longer now that his brain was awake and remembering the events of last night. John padded lightly downstairs, wary of his bare feet lest Sherlock decided to litter the sitting room floor in thumbtacks or corrosive acid again.

 

The flat was quiet, and after a quick peek down the hallway to Sherlock’s room, John decided it was empty as well. John moved to the kitchen to make some tea, and found a note attached to the kettle with what looked like used chewing gum. He pulled the note from the kettle and switched it on, resigned to finished peeling off the gum remnants later. Preferably after breakfast. The note was scrawled in Sherlock’s writing (though he used what appeared to be a blue crayon to write it).

 

                _On a case. Took the harpoon and Sally. Please replace._

_SH._

 

 It took John a moment to digest the contents of the note. After glancing in the fridge, he was able to determine that Sally was what Sherlock had named the dead pig which had taken up the bulk of their refrigerator for the past two days.  John wasn’t sure if Sherlock wanted him to replace the harpoon or the pig. _I’ll certainly be doing neither._

 

After breakfast, John pulled on a pair of rubber gloves he kept under the sink and proceeded to scrub out the inside of the refrigerator and replace the shelves and drawers. That done, he showered and sat down with the day’s newspaper, which Sherlock had left for him in his chair.

 

_I suppose now would be a good time to have that heterosexuality crisis._

 

Strangely, John didn’t feel any sense of panic. He didn’t regret what had happened, and he very much would like it to happen again, though perhaps at a time when John would be able to exercise more self-control. Sherlock’s first sexual encounter had been John rather rudely fucking himself into his mouth, and he resigned to make that up to Sherlock. He felt a sense of pride for being the one Sherlock wanted to be with. Sherlock trusted him, even with something as intimate as sex. _Does that make me special?_ Irene’s words floated through his mind. _I dunno. Maybe._ He hoped so. He very much wanted to be special to Sherlock.

 

John would back off if Sherlock didn’t want anything further, but John would take whatever Sherlock would give him. With Sherlock, whatever he wanted to give would always be enough.

 

Sherlock’s sudden arrival back at the flat was startling. He stood, splattered in blood, clutching the harpoon, posing rather dramatically in the doorway. John’s first concern was for the floors. He’d just spent all morning cleaning blood out of the fridge, he didn’t feel like scrubbing the floors as well.

 

“Well. That was tedious.”

 

***

 

John slept on the train to Dartmoor. Sherlock’s constant mutters served nicely to lull him sleep, and John was happy to drift off to avoid Sherlock’s incessant twitching and deductions of their fellow passengers.  He woke shortly before they pulled into the station and was surprised to find Sherlock sleeping softly beside him, his mouth ajar. A peaceful Sherlock, another anomaly to add to his list. It was fair, John supposed, since Sherlock had slept even less than him last night. He gently nudged Sherlock awake.

 

“Are we there?”

 

There was no trace of sleepiness in Sherlock’s voice. His eyes sprung open, wide and focused. Had John not seen it a moment ago, he would not have believed the man had been asleep.

 

_Brilliant. A tireless mind._

 

“Just about.”

 

John was more than happy to let Sherlock drive, as he wasn’t sure he would even remember how at this point. It was nice to see scenery passing by that wasn’t comprised of concrete and steel. He wondered how long Sherlock would be able to stand being away from his precious London.

 

“Was last night satisfactory?”

 

“Wh-what?”

 

“Last night. I assume you remember? You weren’t that drunk.”

 

Sherlock frowned, no doubt attempting to calculate just how drunk John was and if he’d had enough to drink to impair his memory.

 

“No. Yes. I remember.”

 

“Well. Did it meet your expectations?”

 

John looked at Sherlock’s profile, carefully arranged into a façade of neutrality. This was not the way he imagined this conversation to start, though he was happy to have it. Things had moved quite quickly since last night, and this was the first time they had been alone together since.

 

“Uhm. Yes. It was…it was nice.”

 

Sherlock smiled, one of his closed-mouthed, self-satisfied smirks. John took that as a good sign.

 

“I do believe you owe me some reciprocation.”

 

Sherlock’s smile had twisted into something smug and haughty. His eyes were still fixed to the road, not giving John a chance to fully read his face. John shifted, coughed.

 

“Yes, alright. Of course. When the case is done-“

 

“Now.”

 

John paused, his expression turning incredulous.

 

“What, _now_ now? You’re driving! We’re on a case!”

 

“While I appreciate your concern for my ability to concentrate while on a case, sex will not impair my senses in the way eating and sleeping does. Also, while I am sure that you will be very enthusiastic, John, you are far from sexually experienced with males and I doubt you will be able to draw my full attention from the road, which I am quite focused on. Don’t take it the wrong way, John, but I’m not ordinary, you know.”

 

John pressed his mouth into a tight line to keep from snapping back at Sherlock. He was very obviously baiting John.

 

“Besides,” Sherlock continued, “I’d say you owe me, after your rather rough treatment last night.”

 

John knew Sherlock was just using his sense of guilt to get what he wanted, but Sherlock was right. John did owe him.

 

“Just don’t get us killed, you prat.”

 

John spoke softly, without any real malice, as he slid his hand over and squeezed Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s smirk was still in place, and John made a silent vow to wipe it off his face, one way or another. John moved his hand to Sherlock’s inner thigh and gently stroked upwards, cupping his prick through the fabric of his trousers. He traced the flaccid member with his index finger, feeling the stirring of arousal beneath his hand. Sherlock’s nostrils flared, but aside from that, he showed no indication of what he was feeling. John unlatched his seatbelt and leaned into Sherlock’s lap, pressing his face against Sherlock’s clothed groin.

 

Sherlock gasped softly as John nuzzled him through his trousers and opened his mouth to breathe warm air over the hardening member. John shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position, and set to work on unzipping Sherlock’s trousers. John felt almost giddy when he pulled out the semi-hard member and felt it twitch in his hand. _I did this. I can make him hard._

 

John was overtaken with a sudden need to feel Sherlock in his mouth, to hear Sherlock cry out when he took him. Without preamble, John swallowed as much of Sherlock as he could, not stopping until he felt his gag reflex kick in. He had an insane moment of disbelief – he had a cock in his mouth, Sherlock’s cock in his mouth – before he remembered to use his tongue. Nearly instantly, Sherlock’s member swelled in his mouth, coming to full hardness. John couldn’t suppress a small moan at the feeling of Sherlock filling his mouth.

 

The car jolted as Sherlock spasmed briefly, before Sherlock pulled the car back into their lane. John almost pulled off, but a warm hand buried itself in his hair, gently holding him in pace. John slid Sherlock out of his mouth anyways, his lips resting against the tip. He looked up to briefly lock eyes with Sherlock.

 

“Keep your eyes on the road, and your hands on the wheel.”

 

As he spoke, John’s lips brushed against the head of Sherlock’s prick, smearing his own saliva across the skin. Sherlock’s eyes snapped forward, and he pulled his hand out of John’s hair to place it back on the steering wheel. Satisfied, John licked at the slit of Sherlock’s member, and was mildly surprised to taste a drop of pre-come that started to leak from him. John relished the flavor, letting the bitter, salty taste roll over his tongue before he once again swallowed as much of Sherlock as he could. John awkwardly grasped the base of Sherlock’s cock with his hand, trying to support his upper body without digging an elbow painfully into Sherlock’s leg.

 

He slowly began to set a pace, sweeping down with his mouth and up with hand to meet somewhere in the middle. He tried to remember what he liked when women did this for him, and gently increased his suction, paying careful attention to his teeth. He heard Sherlock gasp softly, and took it as an encouraging sign. He sped up, keeping with his rhythm. When Sherlock’s hip gave the tiniest thrust upwards, he pulled off and focused on the head of Sherlock’s cock, sucking and licking and trying desperately to ignore the tightness in his own pants.

 

“John, stop.”

 

John pulled off and looked up at Sherlock, confused. _What did I do wrong now?_

 

Sherlock didn’t explain further, but John saw him turn the wheel sharply and the car slowed to a halt, bumping roughly as it moved off the pavement. John moved to pull back and sit up, but Sherlock shifted the car into park, and put his hand back on John’s head.

 

“Wanted to watch you.”

 

Sherlock’s murmured confession pulled a smile across John’s face. He bent his head into Sherlock’s lap once more and regretted that he wouldn’t be able to see Sherlock’s face as he came from this angle.  He resumed his attentions to Sherlock’s cock at the pace he had established earlier. He was glad that Sherlock seemed close – he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep this position.

 

Sherlock’s ‘vocal response to sexual stimuli’, as he would label it, consisted of small, breathy moans and gasps. John squeezed own thighs together, painfully aware of how Sherlock’s vocal responses were affecting him. He increased his pace, now desperate to feel Sherlock fall apart inside him.

 

“John, _yes_ , John!”

 

John pulled back, keeping just the head of Sherlock’s prick in his mouth and sucked greedily. He took a chance and moved the hand that was gripping the base of Sherlock’s prick down to his sack and squeezed gently.

 

Sherlock’s sudden intake of breath was the only warning John had before wet release flooded his mouth. John pulled back in surprise, and a thick ribbon of cum landed on his cheek. He looked up to lock eyes with Sherlock and the last stream of Sherlock’s climax splattered against his face, crossing his nose and dripping into the other line of cum on his cheek. Sherlock had a flush across his cheeks that spread down to his neck and under the collar of his shirt.  

 

“John.”

 

His voice was uneven. John had never seen him so undone.

 

“You could’ve warned me.”

 

Sherlock pulled on John’s shoulders, trying to tug him up. John sat up and climbed over to straddle Sherlock’s lap, his knees pressed into the seat on either side of Sherlock’s legs. John’s back was pressed against the steering wheel and the top of his head brushed against the roof, but it didn’t matter because Sherlock was plucking at the button to John’s jeans and John had never wanted a hand on his cock so badly. He moved his own hands to yank his zipper down and immediately Sherlock’s deft hand slid in and grasped John’s cock through his pants. Sherlock’s other hand reached up to pull John’s head down and he crushed their lips together briefly before moving his tongue to John’s cheek, where he lapped at his own cum.

 

“Oh, god, Sherlock!”

 

John had never thought it polite to do this to any of the women he had been with, but damn was he finding it hot. Sherlock’s hand continued to pull long drags on his prick and he was humming gently while licking his own cum from John’s face and _oh dear god so close_.

 

John had both his hands fisted in the lapels of Sherlock’s coat, holding on for balance as Sherlock licked a path over his nose and the hand on his prick squeezed. A thumb pressed against his slit, and John shuddered into his release, his hips jerking minutely. He collapsed onto Sherlock, his head resting against the other man’s shoulder as a last shiver wrecked through him.  Sherlock extracted his hand and awkwardly pat at John’s back.

 

“Yeah, yeah. Just. Give me a minute.”

 

John sat still for a few heartbeats longer before climbing back over to his seat. Sherlock tucked himself back into his trousers and grinned over at John.

 

“So I did distract you.”

 

John said, smiling back. Sherlock’s smile turned to a smirk and he pushed his door open.

 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. Just scouting out the surroundings. Bring the map with you.”

 

With that he popped out of the car and headed to the nearest outcrop of rock. John watched him scramble up the rockface before searching the back seat for the requested map. He used the end of Sherlock’s temporarily discarded scarf to wipe off the remains of fluid on his face.

 

He didn’t feel guilty about it at all.

 

***

 

“Eh, sorry we couldn’t do a double room for you boys.”

 

“That’s fine. We-we’re not…”

 

_Well. Are we?_ He let his sentence taper out. No use denying something he’s not even sure of. He finished chatting up the owners (Sherlock’s not the only one who can snoop around) and nabed the suspicious receipt. Sherlock was wondering about, sleuthing? Deducing? John felt he more or less just swooped about, intimidating the locals. He called Henry on his way out of the inn, letting him know they’d be over within the hour.

 

Things moved quickly after that, as they so often did with Sherlock.

 

The trip to Baskerville, their subsequent hasty retreat from Baskerville, off to Henry’s house, the expedition to the moor, Sherlock’s tantrum in the inn, all passed by with a jarring quickness.

John found himself sucking in the cool air outside the inn, trying valiantly to smother his anger at Sherlock. _I don’t have **friends**!_ It was amazing, the range of emotions Sherlock was capable of making John feel through the span of just a day. This morning he had been thinking eagerly about climbing back into bed with the man, and now all he felt towards him was an itching in his fist to make contact with Sherlock’s face. 

 

John took a moment to clench and unclench his fists, enjoying the feeling of his skin pulling taut over his knuckles. It was then that he noticed the mysterious flashing light again. Sherlock could sit inside with his damned tantrum and mythical beast, but John was determined to conduct some actual investigating. _I may not be Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not useless._

John knew he was being foolish, that he just wanted to prove himself to Sherlock. He was tired of being a sidekick. He was a soldier, damnit! And a damn fine doctor, as well. Living in the shadow of Sherlock was making him forget his own abilities. He wasn’t Sherlock’s babysitter, he was his partner, and he knew he brought something to the table when he followed Sherlock on his cases.

 

Of course, the one time he had a promising lead, it turned out to be shagging. _Of course_. John furiously turned on his heel to head back to the Inn. When his phone alerted him, he was tempted to ignore it, knowing Sherlock was the only one who would be texting him, but it was out of his pocket before he was able to stop himself. Feeling rather put-out about his failed lead, and still quite angry at Sherlock for his fit earlier, John choose to express himself with a response in all caps. When Sherlock sent him a picture of Henry’s very pretty therapist, John paused, momentarily conflicted.

 

“Oh, you’re a bad man.”

 

John couldn’t help but laugh. Sherlock’s form of apology was just so crude.

 

***

 

Dr. Mortimer was a lovely woman, and John quite enjoyed flirting with her, but he had no intention of doing more than gaining information from her. It was tempting to pursue her; she really was quite pretty, and why shouldn’t he? Sherlock had been a right bastard, and it didn’t look like they’d be repeating their previous excursions anytime soon. But John was set on figuring things out between them. He wouldn’t risk an opportunity to sleep with Sherlock again on a one-off with a pretty therapist. He was resolved to talk to Sherlock after he was done fishing information out of Dr. Mortimer. The bastard was sharing a room with him; John would just corner him there.

 

He was finally getting somewhere with Louise when Frankland firmly stepped in and buggered everything up.

 

“Private Detective! This is his P.A.!”

 

“P.A.?”

 

Is that what he was? Sherlock’s P.A.? John sullenly reflected that he’d rather been seen as his boyfriend.

 

“Well, _live-in_ P.A.”

 

_And there it is._ He doesn’t bother trying to explain to Louise. What would he say? _Well, yes, I’m his live-in P.A. and occasionally we shag, but we’re not really committed and I’d really like to chat you up some more so you’ll divulge some private information about your patient, so don’t leave!_ He watches her go ruefully. Even when Sherlock tries to help him, he manages to mess it all up.

 

John spent the rest of the night in their room, waiting for Sherlock to come back from wherever he ran off too. John nodded off on his twin bed, and when he woke in the morning, the bed across from him remained unoccupied and undisturbed.

 

Sherlock found him the next morning in the town’s small cemetery, jotting down notes from the case so far so he wouldn’t forget anything to add to his blog later. As far as apologies go, Sherlock’s was not particularly eloquent or touching, but it was heartfelt, and John accepted it immediately. He was still a bit fussed he wasn’t able to clear the air between them last night, but there would always be time for talking later. They had a case to crack.

***

Sherlock did indeed crack the case, with all of his usual brilliance and edge of petulance. John thought back to being kicked out of the lab so Sherlock could retreat to his mind palace. John had watched him through the window in the door, all flailing arms and scrunched face. The memory alone still made him chuckle.

John thumped down on his bed with a heavy sigh. He was exhausted. Adrenaline had been coursing through him since his experience in the lab. He was glad Greg was handling the local police, John didn’t much fancy explaining how they had basically chased a man into a mine field, the end result being fireworks. Sherlock had wanted to leave straight away, of course, but John was firm. They were both tired, and John had no intention of packing his (and Sherlock’s) bag to spend the night on a train. They’d stay in Dartmoor one more night and leave in the morning.

“I suppose you would like to talk about it.”

John started untying his trainers, glancing at where Sherlock stood by the grubby window in their small room, still wearing his coat and gloves.

“I would, yeah, but now’s probably not the time.”

John tugged off his trainers and stood to shrug off his jacket. Sherlock turned to watch in detached interest as John flicked open the buttons on his shirt and deftly unzipped his jeans. Stripped down to his pants, John turned his back on Sherlock and peeled back the blanket on his bed.

Sherlock crossed the small room in two swift strides, and pressed himself against John’s back. His long arms twisted around John’s middle, one gloved hand resting over his naval and the other pressed over the center of his chest. John paused, and leaned his head back against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“We don’t have to talk.”

Sherlock whispered against John’s ear and it sent a shiver down John’s spine. Even fully clothed, John could feel Sherlock’s heat seeping into him and it just felt so erotic, to be so exposed while Sherlock was so covered. John tried to take a moment to adjust to the feeling of another – very male – body fitting against his. It was surreal, to have Sherlock holding him, practically embracing him. Sherlock nuzzled against John’s neck before licking a slow path across the shell of his ear. When Sherlock lightly bit down on his earlobe, John inhaled sharply.

“I thought you were a virgin….”

John moaned, tilting his head to the side to allow Sherlock better access.

“I was. Research, John.”

_Of course._  Sherlock never went into a new situation without conducting research first. John had a sudden image of Sherlock watching porn, perhaps even touching himself, and felt himself get hard at just the thought.  Sherlock rubbed a gloved hand across John’s nipple, and John reached his left hand behind him to grab at Sherlock’s hip. The damn coat was in his way, and John wasn’t satisfied with the feel of Sherlock’s hip under so many layers.

“Ah, too much clothes.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss into John’s neck, his mouth curving into a smile on John’s skin. He held his arms out in front of them, inviting John to turn around in their embrace. Instead, John tugged off Sherlock’s gloves, one by one, and pulled Sherlock’s right hand straight to where he wanted it. Sherlock cupped him gently and continued to lick and suckle on the exposed skin of John’s neck. Sherlock’s left hand moved back to John’s nipple, rolling and teasing. John sighed, letting his eyes close as he pushed back against Sherlock, feeling the other man’s erection press against his lower back through the fabric of his trousers.

Sherlock ground against him and sucked harder at John’s neck. There would probably be a bruise come morning, but John couldn’t bring himself to care. John put his hand over Sherlock’s on his cock and slowly stroked himself through his pants.

“While this is nice, I was hoping for something…more tonight.”

Sherlock unlatched himself from John’s skin and nuzzled again at his ear.

“Of course. I’ve brought lubricant.”

John chuckled. _So romantic._

Sherlock stepped back from John and pulled off his coat before unwinding his scarf. John pushed down his own pants and stepped out of them, feeling oddly self-conscious to be completely nude in front of Sherlock.  Sherlock slowly drug his eyes over John’s body, no doubt assessing and categorizing and storing data. John briefly wondered if he occupied any space in Sherlock’s mind palace. _There’s probably a shoebox with “John” written on it under a bed somewhere._

John moved forward, avoiding Sherlock’s penetrating gaze, and reached up to undo the button on Sherlock’s jacket. He smoothed his hands along Sherlock’s chest as he pushed the jacket off his shoulders. Sherlock twisted out of it and let it carelessly fall to the ground. He moved his hands back up to cup John’s face and tilt it upwards. Their eyes met, and John licked his lips in sudden nervousness.

Sherlock swooped down and closed the space between their mouths. They kissed with their eyes open, tongues slowly molding and twisting together.  John felt exposed in an entirely new way, and closed his eyes against it. He nipped at Sherlock’s lip, pushing the kiss from slow and sedate to something needy and raw. Something John could handle.  Sherlock growled and responded in kind.

John’s fingers flew along the buttons to Sherlock’s shirt, quickly pulling them from their holes and exposing Sherlock’s lean chest. He left the garment hanging open and moved to undo Sherlock’s trousers. He pulled out of the kiss and quickly dropped to his knees. Boldly, John pulled both the trousers and pants down in one go. Sherlock’s long erection sprang out at him and John grasped at the back of Sherlock’s thighs before dragging his tongue along the shaft. Sherlock gripped John’s shoulder, the scarred one, and moaned.

“Hold on, John.”

He moved to his discarded coat and pulled a small tube from an inside pocket, treating John to a fantastic view of his bare ass as he bent over.  John resolutely did not think about the reasoning the other man had for carrying about lube for the entire day. Sherlock pressed the tube into John’s hand before settling back in front of him expectantly. John took Sherlock back into his mouth as he popped the cap off and covered two fingers of his left hand in the lubricant.

He bobbed on Sherlock’s cock, and after a moment of deliberation, slid his hand down past his own sack to trace his entrance. Sherlock made a noise of surprise, and John looked up to watch him as he slowly pushed a finger into himself. Sherlock’s eyes went wide, fixated on John’s left hand. He couldn’t see anything, not from this angle, but the implication of what that hand was doing was obviously enough to set him off.

John moved slowly, he had never done this before. It felt strange, but not painful. He worked his middle finger in deeper, thrusting gently and trying to get used to feeling. Both of Sherlock’s hands were gripping his shoulders now, the sensation nearly painful. John rocked forward, bringing Sherlock’s cock deeper into his mouth, and then rocked back, impaling himself back on his finger. He repeated the motion a few more times, listening to Sherlock’s labored breathing above him. John added a second finger and continued the process, finding it harder to keep a steady pace.

By the time John had worked up to three fingers, Sherlock’s cock had been all but abandoned. John was concentrating solely on stretching himself open, and only managed a few precursory licks to Sherlock’s prick. John was panting heavily, and his knees had started to go numb.

“ I think…..I’m ready.”

John pushed the words out, his voice not cooperating willingly. He stood shakily, grabbing on to Sherlock’s arms for support when his knees threatened to buckle. Sherlock ducked down to plant a kiss on John’s mouth.

“Get on the bed, John. Hands and knees.”

John shivered. Hearing those words come from Sherlock – it was something he never thought he would experience. He turned around and clamored back on the narrow bed, facing the headboard. He heard Sherlock move softly behind him, and braced himself for the feeling of Sherlock’s member to press against him. Instead, Sherlock reached around John and stroked his flagging erection with his left hand, slowly bringing him back to full hardness. Sherlock’s other hand slid between his cheeks and probed gently at his streatched entrance.

“Unh. You don’t have to, Sherlock, I’m ready.”

Two long, cool fingers pressed into him.

“I want to.”

John moaned as Sherlock continued to pump him and crooked his fingers inside of him. Sherlock’s fingers were longer, and the angle was better and _dear god fuck yes what was that?_ John yelped as a spike of pleasure went through him, and Sherlock repeated the motion with his fingers.

“Oh fuck yes, Sherlock! God, yes!”

John pushed back against Sherlock, fucking Sherlock’s fingers inside him and also rubbing against the fist around his cock. Sherlock pushed in a third finger and immediately returned to stroking John’s prostate. John devolved into indeterminable muttering consisting mainly of Sherlock’s name and cussing.

“John, I can’t wait anymore.”

John groaned in response. Wasn’t it obvious by now that he didn’t need to wait any longer? He felt the hand withdraw from his member and move to grip his hip. The fingers left him next, to be replaced with a thick hardness pressed against his entrance.

“John, tell me it’s okay.”

John craned his neck to look over his shoulder at the man lined up against him.

“Yes.”

Sherlock surged forward and John forced himself to keep watching his face as he pushed slowly in, until he was fully sheathed inside John. Sherlock paused, his chest heaving, skin flushed. _Beautiful._ The stretch was uncomfortable, and stung a bit, but the feeling of fullness was welcome.

“God, Sherlock, move!”

Sherlock pulled out, just a fraction, and snapped his hips back forcefully.  John moaned, and allowed his arms to collapse onto the bed. His face pressed against the sheets, his ass still raised in the air.

“Oh, John. It’s exquisite.”

Sherlock pulled out again, this time fully, before thrusting back in again, his balls slapping against John’s ass. John muffled a scream into the sheets. Sherlock had rubbed against his prostate and pure pleasure coursed through him. He squirmed around Sherlock and managed to grasp his cock. Sherlock started thrusting in earnest, and every smack of his hips against John’s backside jolted his hand on his prick. John found himself the vocal one, and trying to suppress his wanton moans by pressing his face into the sheets.

“No, John, let me hear you.”

It didn’t seem fair that Sherlock was still capable of forming complete sentences when all John could do was pant uncontrollably. Obediently, John turned his head and moaned out Sherlock’s name. He increased his pace on his cock, as Sherlock sped up.

“Can you come like this, John? I would like to see that.”

_Oh god._ As if John could deny the man anything.

“ _Y_ -yes. Just keep – god – f-faster, Sherlock!”

John timed his strokes to Sherlock’s thrusts, now hitting his prostate every third stroke or so. It didn’t matter, he was going to come anyways, John Watson was going to come with a cock up his ass and his own hand on his dick. He had never been so aroused in his life.  Sherlock grunted and leaned forward, pressing his front to John’s back. His open shirt hung on either side of them in an embrace, fluttering with Sherlock’s movements. He took one hand off John’s hip and placed it over John’s on his prick, matching his pace.

John didn’t bother trying to suppress his cry. One more stroke with Sherlock’s hand on his own, and a deep thrust right against his prostate, and John climaxed. Pleasure rolled through him and he clenched around Sherlock, squirting his release through their joined hands to ruin the bedsheets below.

“Oh, _John._ ”

Sherlock had stilled during John’s climax, letting John rut against his hand through the waves of pleasure. He started to move again, small, shallow thrusts, as though he might hurt John.

“Fuck me, Sherlock. Finish.”

John panted, utterly spent. He wanted to feel Sherlock finish, wanted to feel his release inside of him. He wanted to feel Sherlock loose himself. Sherlock groaned, his forehead pressed against John’s back as he gripped John’s hips with both hands and snapped his hips violently forward. His pace was erratic and unforgiving, pulling out only long enough to thrust back in.

“JohnJohnJohn _John!”_

Sherlock moaned his name like a dirty word and stilled completely. John felt Sherlock climax inside of him and moaned at the feeling, his over stimulated body trying to bring him to arousal again, but it was too soon. Sherlock pulled out of John and went boneless, collapsing on top of John. John dropped to the bed and didn’t bother telling Sherlock to budge off.

“Well, I certainly hope that was up to your expectations.”

John felt Sherlock grin into his back.

“John, you never cease to surpass my expectations.”

John smiled. _Yeah, love you too, you git._

 

-fin-

 

  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: The lovely [rutobuka2](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/) drew a beautiful (and very nsfw) scene from this fic! Find it [here!](http://rutobuka2.tumblr.com/post/71587437256/reading-some-johnlock-fics-got-inspired-by-a-few)


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